


In His Hands

by halocentury



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Loss of Trust, M/M, Pre-Slash, making amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25415890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halocentury/pseuds/halocentury
Summary: Knives are of a personal, intimate variety. Oswald has a collection that he uses on special occasions.There is one knife that has passed through several hands, a symbol of friendship. A symbol of trust.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot & Jim Gordon, Oswald Cobblepot & Victor Zsasz, Oswald Cobblepot/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	In His Hands

Working for the mafia, there was a constant need for versatility. There was never only one means of making a profit, or threatening those who didn’t hand over the profits fast enough. If one wasn’t fast enough on their feet, the law would eventually catch up with you. It was only a matter of luck of who was the arresting officer. A silver-tongue could be equally an asset or flaw, depending on who was talking or listening. Suspicions could be provoked within seconds, by tongue or fleeting gestures.

And when suspicion led to truth, and the truth was not in favour, he needed to be versatile in how he took out the hapless fool.

He always carried two guns, several rounds clipped in under his jacket, easily loaded into his guns as needed. They were an integral part of his uniform but he armed himself for whatever the situation required. Guns were his weapon of choice, more versatile than a rocket launcher, not that he didn’t keep one in storage. Close range or far range, he always had options.

He did carry a couple of knives, one strictly for increasing the tally of his kills as needed. 

The other he carried around for when the situation called for flair, or an intimate slow torture or kill.

For that reason, he admired the collection that Oswald had amassed. Most were kept in the mansion, used for special occasions, reserved for the kingpin’s personal kills. The hands that wielded the knives looked delicate, so easy to break, but lashed out like a viper, fast and deadly when required. 

He thought that Oswald only carried one knife on him at all times, but one night when he went into the den, knowing that Oswald would be enjoying his post-dinner tea there, the knife he saw him admiring in the lamplight was not the one he was familiar with. 

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t seen this one previously. 

“That’s Falcone’s.”

“So I’ve been told.” He moved quietly to the side of Oswald’s chair, until he could see him properly, the back of the upholstered chair taller than the seated man. Oswald laid the knife flat in his hand, the better for him to look at it properly. “Did he ever tell you who he received it from?”

“It was a gift?” That part Victor didn’t know. He had seen Carmine use the knife on several occasions, but for the most part he had seen the former don treat it like a treasure, bringing it out at night to memorize by feel, the weight of the handle and hilt, shaping it like he could engrave his history upon it. 

“Given to him by the father of Jim Gordon, and returned to the son when Falcone took his retirement.” Victor still focused on the knife, wondering if the weight and balance truly suited Oswald. His focus on the slender hand, he heard the pensive look on Oswald’s face rather than saw it. “Jim and I have agreed to a truce, to take on a common enemy, and as a gesture of goodwill – which I know will only be a temporary offer, he has gifted me with the knife. We will be occupied with the task tomorrow night, but if he handles truces and gifts like his favours, I will not be bringing this knife with me tomorrow. Until I return, I entrust the knife with you.”

Victor looked up to Oswald’s face then, surprised – flattered, and truly not believing it until he saw him nod. “Boss?”

“I know you will keep this safe until I make my return.” Oswald lifted his hand, the gesture now taking the proper meaning. 

From right hand to his left hand, Victor handled the knife gently, honouring not just Oswald’s request, but taking on the legacy of the man who came before them.

He tucked the blade back into the handle, brought it as close to his lips as he dared. He may have once kissed it but instead he breathed in slowly, forming a fist around the switchblade. 

Two nights passed and he waited, the knife fastened under jacket and shirt, the metal a cold mark, a brand against his chest amongst the tallies. 

There it would remain, until Oswald returned.

Eventually, much longer than he anticipated, he had the opportunity to return it. 

Except Oswald shook his head, curling his fingers around his, gently pressing them back around the knife. 

“You have been faithful.” Oswald squeezed his fingers, and he couldn’t look away from the almost teary eyes, the green brighter in that moment. “You’ve been a constant, dedicated to your job and to me. It’s only fitting that you keep this. Not only as my gift, but as a memory of the man who shaped your career.” 

If only he had truly shown him how much that meant to him, how deep that dedication went.

Before he ruined that honour, to Os- his once boss, and by believing in the usurper to the crown.

Trust, shattered by words rather than the blade he carried, he couldn’t re-forge. At least, he never had the opportunity to get close to Oswald again. All the alliances that Oswald had afterwards, were fragile at best, tying him with people who had betrayed him before. Not that he wasn’t any better than them, but once he had been his right-hand man. He should’ve taken the opportunity, rebuilt bridges. 

Bridges. What a joke. They had become islands, separated, just like Gotham.

Did he really believe in that? After the shootout? And the guillotine?

He couldn’t blame him, even if he mocked him. 

But he finally had the chance to show his displeasure to the man who should’ve had Oswald’s back. To the man who Oswald should’ve always kept his guard up around. 

Temporary offers and truces.

“You aren’t fighting me,” he remarked, tempted to bite Gordon’s ear while holding the blade to his throat.

“You’ve chosen a peculiar time to show your alliance to Penguin,” Jim replied, in the same casual tone that he spoke to the commissioner. 

“You put him in Blackgate. After all that he has done for you.” He tightened his grip, put the tip of the blade against his pulse point. “He trusted too easily. Me. You. At least he knew that your acts of kindness were only meant to be short lived. No mercies for old friends.”

He dragged the knife up, along his jaw, sniffing at the blood as it beaded through the broken skin. “Did your father do that for Falcone?” 

That was when Gordon finally tensed. “How do you know?”

“A little birdie once told me.” He breathed hot on his ear, pitched his voice lower even in the empty parking lot garage, no one else around to see or hear them. “I don’t know if I’m better off to kill you with the gift you gave him, or to throw it back at you for all the times you failed him.”

He spun away from Gordon, dropping the knife to the man’s feet, whipping his gun out to aim it at his forehead. At least that’s what he wanted, but Gordon was staring at the weapon glinting the dim garage lights back up to him. “You – had it?”

“He trusted it with me.” He smirked when Gordon finally looked up, crow’s feet heavier with shame, and the incarcerated ghost of a man a fault they shared. “The guilt is ours, and you started it. Pick that up and take the responsibility.”

“I can’t.”

“Or you won’t?” He fired his gun but not without shifting his aim enough that it skinned the ear that he had been whispering in. “Pick it up.”

“You’re a better man than I am. I – I have done – more disservices to Oswald than you ever had.” Jim sighed, shoulders drooping as he took a backwards step towards his car. “I – I have no worth to keep that knife. It’s a token of trust and friendship.” 

It may have not been the best way to treat a treasured gift, but as a means to transfer the knife to the man who was aiming the gun at him yet again, kicking the knife back to him was the safest route. 

He didn’t pick it up until Gordon had driven away.

Kept it, instead of cornering Gordon again.

Waited ten years for the man he really wanted to see. Kept alert, searching and listening for any news, but also relied on the handful of people who worked for him.

It took him several days until he found him alone, that string bean taking his leave at long last. 

“Boss?”

He didn’t frequent the place back then, but if his memory served him, it was the building that Riddler ran his old game show at. That man was absent, had set out on foot half an hour ago, leaving Penguin inspecting the interior of the premises. 

He stopped, looking around, remarkably looking in the right direction that his voice came from. “Victor?”

He moved closer, his cheek twitching, wanting to smile when he saw Penguin relax. His guns were still holstered but he noticed Oswald’s gaze slide towards his hand, the one that had something within its grasp. “I didn’t expect to find you here. This place isn’t exactly in liveable conditions.”

“The rats seem to think it is,” Penguin remarked, shrugging one shoulder. 

“You’re better than them. Not that I ever let you know that, after…” 

When he stalled, hating to state the obvious, Penguin went from pleasant to scowling. “After what Victor? Are we doing the whole list, starting with Sofia? After shooting at me?”

“You were ready to cut my head off,” he countered, cocking his head to mirror Penguin.

“You cut me off. I wasn’t in Arkham forever. You could’ve come to City Hall at any time but you chose to be independent, which was fine with me. We were off on our own paths until you tried to kill me. And what can I say, when the opportunity presented itself, to get justice for a crime, getting revenge on you sounded like a fine idea.” Huffing out a smirk he jerked his chin up, stuck his elbow out to the side and pressed his knuckles to his hip. “The people demanded it.”

“I was innocent.” And the remarkable part was the string bean did it. 

“So was I Victor!” 

He looked to the ground before the weight in his hand reminded him why he came. 

“You held me in honour once. You decided – that I was someone you could trust. And yeah, I fucked up.” Pursing his lips together he looked up, unable to meet Penguin’s eyes and looking past his right ear.

He nearly looked down again, knowing that was once the position he took.

Extending his arm he presented the switchblade to him. “It’s time you have this back.” 

Sucking in a tight breath, after schooling his mouth into a tight line that no longer looked like it was about to whisper his name, Penguin reached slowly before shaking his head, recoiling quickly. “You’ve had it all this time, you deserve to keep it. I’m… not one to demand a gift to be returned. I’m vengeful, but… I won’t do that.” 

“I’ll keep it, but only under one condition.” Penguin couldn’t help but regard him curiously, silent. “Only if you agree that I work for you again. I want a reason to deserve this, the honour.”

When Penguin looked at him, their gazes unwavering, he dipped his head in agreement, expression sombre but honest. “We both need to work on that, to respect one another again.”

“I agree with that.” He nearly smiled, but grabbed Penguin’s hand instead. There was a moment where he flinched, the switchblade pressed between their hands, but when Penguin realised that it was meant to be a handshake to seal the deal, he relaxed, shook his hand back. “I’ve been taking care of the Dahl mansion,” Victor added.

“Oh thank God.” Victor glanced back to Penguin, smirking at the wide-eyed horror on his face. “He promised that we would have a place set up, but when he brought me here? No amenities let alone furnishings! I don’t know what he thinks he can dig up to get power going, and in ten year’s absence? Someone else probably owns the building now.” 

“The Ridder can stay with his rats. We’ve got the Mansion – and everything is as it was,” he added as extra reassurance, leading him out the back entrance. 

“That sounds promising.” 

He made no comment that Penguin hadn’t slipped his hand out of his hold.

When he slipped the switchblade into Penguin’s jacket pocket he tilted his head towards Penguin, Penguin already casting a reproving look up to him. 

“Just to make sure you’re coming back to the mansion,” he explained, holding his hands up in a brief defence. 

Wiggled his fingers once they were lowered to his side, just a little too restless.

Slowed his steps for several paces until he was walking behind Penguin.

He didn’t miss the brief look Penguin gave him, the corner of his mouth curling up.

Things looked quite promising.


End file.
